


Prep Work

by AuroraRebellion



Category: Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: FE Gen Week, Fluff, Gen, Team as Family, written for the prompt 'birthday!'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23860381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraRebellion/pseuds/AuroraRebellion
Summary: Marth's 24th birthday is fast approaching, and his most trusted knights do a passable job of preparing for a party.-Written for FE Gen Week- prompt, birthday. Featuring the general shenanigans of Marth's royal guard.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24





	Prep Work

**Author's Note:**

> Am I posting this a little late? Yes. Do I care? Not really.  
> I had fun with this, so I hope you enjoy!

Cain rests his head against his folded arms, and lets out a sigh. Jagen pauses in putting away the chess pieces, raising his gaze to the knight seated across the desk from him.

“That was quite a heavy sigh. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s… _wrong,_ really. I’m trying to think.”

Jagen bites back an old, sarcastic comment (though he does smile at the thought of it), and instead asks, “Of what?”

“Lord Marth. His birthday is in three days and I want to give him a gift, or organize a celebration… but I can’t figure out what he’d appreciate most. I don’t want to overwhelm him, or give him something he dislikes.”

“You aren’t certain?” Now the smile on his face comes out in his voice, and he chuckles. “Cain, you have known our lord for the better part of a decade. I’m certain your intuition would steer you true.”

Cain lifts his head, eyes narrowed as he looks to Jagen. “I don’t want to find out I was wrong on his _birthday_ , sir. And he would pull the blow, too, if he told me at all.”

“...Alright,” Jagen sighs, “Your desire to do it right is commendable. And I can’t say your prediction would be inaccurate, should you truly go astray... I would suggest a small gathering. Limit it to his closest allies- which will consist mainly of your fellow royal guard, along with those in his family. Not quiet, perhaps, by nature of volume-” he just raises his eyebrows and keeps speaking as Cain snickers- “But by group size. It would be small enough to hold in the southern hall.”

“Understood. I’ll go speak to lady Caeda first!” Suddenly given new energy, Cain hops up from his seat, and waves goodbye before striding out the door. “Thank you!”

“I had better receive a handwritten invitation, young man!” Jagen calls back. Cain replies with some sort of probably-affirmative, already a little too far away for his words to carry cleanly. ...Or, at least, too far to carry cleanly to old ears, Jagen muses to himself, and goes to put the chess set back into the drawer it resides in.

-

Jagen receives the invitation that evening- his name is written carefully on the front of the paper, and left on the desk in his study.

He takes a seat, unfolding it and scanning the words…

_Commander Jagen,_

_You are cordially invited to the birthday celebration for Prince Marth. Please arrive in the southern hall of the castle an hour before noon, on the 20th of this month._

_(Here’s your invitation, you old fart. )_

_Captain Cain Mirum_

...And he laughs as he sets it aside, shaking his head. He requested a handwritten invitation- and he neglected to specify what sort.

It’s too humourous to even feign disapproval.

-

As it turns out, while all the planners and to-be attendees are enthusiastic and more than eager to help, not all are created equal in skills. Kris may be eager, but he has been formally ordered out of the kitchen by Abel. Gordin has burnt himself twice thus far. Merric keeps blowing flour dust across the room whenever he gets too excited talking about the celebration.

Caeda sighs, heavily, and shares a glance with one of her two longsuffering companions. Jagen smiles sympathetically, then returns to his own work.

“ _No,_ Kris,” Abel sighs. “I know you want to help, but you’ve been given your orders. Everything you make ends up tasting like steel, and that’s not what any of this is supposed to taste like. I’m sure Cain and his team could use your help with finishing touches to the decorations…”

“But sir Abel-”

“Please. Go to the hall. I’ll call you if you’re needed here.”

Kris frowns deeply, but bows and trots away.

“I wish I knew why that happens to him,” Caeda laments. “I don’t want to discourage him, but I can’t find a solution to the problem.”

“Does it happen if he never touches the ingredients?” Merric asks.

“I’m not sure. But what can you make, where you’d never touch any of it? Especially not in baking…”

“We can worry about that later,” Abel asserts. “.. _.Gordin!_ Where are your gloves?”

“I don’t need them. The tin has spent a little while cooling off, so it should be fine.”

“Naga have mercy- put that ice back on your hand, and I’ll take care of it.”

Abel and Gordin devolve into quiet, civil bickering, while Merric laughs lightly.

“I do wonder if all this excitement isn’t shortening all our tempers… it’s certainly for the best we don’t have Abel _and_ Cain in here with us, isn’t it?”

“I could handle them,” Jagen says, “I kept them in line as teenagers. A bit of squabbling between adults is nothing compared to that.”

Caeda snickers, glancing up from where she’s whisking eggs in a bowl. “I do recall them being different, back then…”

“Who is this we’re talking about?” Abel asks, as he jerks a pair of oven mitts from Gordin’s grasp. Gordin is whining, but he’s not tall enough to reach as Abel holds the gloves over his head.

“You and Cain. Jagen was talking about babysitting you both, back when you were teenagers.”

“Oh.” Abel makes a face that has nothing to do with how Gordin is jumping and still failing to snatch the gloves back. “I shouldn’t be held accountable for the sins of my teenage self.”

“Whether you’re accountable or not, I have plenty of stories,” Jagen says. The way Merric turns suddenly sends a gentle breeze floating around the kitchen.

“Why don’t you tell us one, to pass the time while we work?”

“Sir Merric? I’m sure we can find some different, more interesting tales, if that’s what you’d like-”

“Retired or not, you’re a knight, Abel,” Jagen cuts in. “I’m telling stories about you and your brother’s tomfoolery, and you’d best take it like a man.”

“...Yes, sir. May I direct your attention to ones featuring Cain, then?”

“If they’re good ones, then yes.”

Gordin gives up on trying to take the gloves, and happily finds some other task.

-

“Ow, gods _dammit--!_ ”

Cain’s on the floor, propping himself up on an elbow, free hand rubbing the back of his head, while Norne is doubled over against the wall laughing.

“Sir Cain!” Kris fusses, kneeling down, “Are you alright?”

“ _Fine,_ Kris, thank you. At ease.”

Kris leans back, giving Cain space to push himself up, then get to his feet.

“Are you sure, sir? You fell off that ladder, and it sounded like it hurt…”

“It was a few feet. I’m fine. Though, if _Norne_ wants to take her chances re-hanging that corner, I fully encourage her efforts.”

Draug snickers, while Frey sighs from his place at a table.

“Is it polite to put a lady in danger, Cain?” He chides. Cain snorts. “Yes, Norne’s a _lady_ , but she’s just as much a knight as you and me. And even if it was dangerous, she could handle a little danger.”

“I dunno,” Norne interjects, “I think I’m a delicate damsel of sorts…” she leans against Draug, sighing. “I need somebody to look out for me, or I’ll end up in all sorts of bad fortune.”

Draug plants a kiss to the top of her head before gently pushing her away. “The only bad fortune I’d worry about for you is with maps.”

This pulls a laugh from Kris, of all people. Norne flashes a toothy grin, tilting her head to acknowledge a fair point.

“I can’t help my sense of direction, but I think I’ve done fine with m’self so far…”

“Then direct yourself to the ladder, miss,” Cain teases, motioning to the object he fell off of moments before. “And don’t get lost now!”

“Tall order, captain sir,” she shoots back. Frey is still chuckling when she’s climbed up to adjust the garland at the top of the ladder.

“Do you think lady Elice will return to help with the table decorations?” Kris asks.

“She just left to check on the kitchen, didn’t she?” Draug responds. “I think she’ll return.”

“There is the matter of keeping Lord Marth unaware of our actions though,” Frey says. “I believe our Lady and sir Jagen are the key players in that part of the scheme… so she could have been called away.”

“Lord Marth was writing letters in response to various well-wishes, last I saw,” Cain states. “I imagine we have a little more time before he gets through those.”

“That implies you think he’s long-winded, Sir Cain.”

“Kris. I think nothing of the sort. He’s very thoughtful, so reading and responding are given due time and focus.”

Kris nods, mollified from his previous defensiveness.

“Done!” Norne announces. “Frey, how’re those table decorations comin’ along?”

“Oh, I like to think quite well, but… I don’t have the skill needed for the little napkin birds.”

“I was supposed to be making those anyway,” Draug comments, and moves to sit beside Frey.

-

It’s his birthday, but it’s also a day just like any other. Well, in the sense that there’s always work to do. But he was encouraged to leave most of it aside for a later date, and he enjoys writing letters in response to friends, which makes responding to Minerva and Maria’s joint letter a pleasant duty.

Along with that, there’s a brief letter from Nyna, one from Sheena that’s more business-focused, not that he can blame her given Gra has so much rebuilding to do-- Yumina and Yubello, currently under Ogma’s care, a letter from king Mostin bearing Talys’s seal, Wendell wishing him and Merric luck on opening the mage’s academy… oh, the letter from Phina, implying Navarre is with her, that was an unexpected but welcome surprise. He’s glad to hear she’s happy- and while he knows the swordsman would never admit it himself, it all seems to imply Navarre is happy as well.

It’s certainly safe to say that answering letters from friends is one of his favorite things to do.

(...Yet, for all of that… he misses the letter that no longer comes, once sealed by Holy Imperial gold. Over three years but the loss still hurts so much at the worst of times.)

He sighs, and sets his quill aside for a moment. There’s more to write, but his mind is beginning to wander. Macedon has less to rebuild than some others, thankfully, but there’s still efforts to make. The palace has been torn apart and remade and reoccupied roughly four times now in the span of two wars, and it’s more painstaking a task each time. The land still boils and rolls under the current rule, split between loyalty and- well, it’s loyalty there as well, isn’t it? Just loyalty to a king who, in this age of hard-won, desperately carved peace… no, Michaelis’s ways would have caused strife, surely, among the current scene.

A decade ago, his reign would have been a topic of gossip, but ultimately supported. The rulers of the past- actually, he’ll be honest there too, the rulers who were like his father- would have agreed with strength as a way of leadership.

Sometimes Marth fears all the dissenters were true. He fears that he really has led the whole continent to become soft, to let down their guards and leave their necks open for a dagger. Yet...

 _You can’t bandage a wound with stone,_ he recalls Minerva telling him once, around a fire after their final victory, _And those who speak against you would have you rule with stone and steel._ Then a gentle smile, tired- so tired- but honest and trusting. _Don’t let them harden you, prince Marth._

He remembers nodding, and how his heart was torn between hope and despair fueled by his own conceptions of his worth. But Caeda repeated the thought later, and then Merric, then Jagen… and it’s been three years since. They’re rebuilding. Each nation is carefully dressing the continent’s wounds, and as much as it scares him, as much as it wears him down to be the guiding light they all turn to? He’s so happy to finally see peace like this.

A knock at the door. He sets aside his inner ramblings, and turns to call, “Come in!”

The door creaks open to reveal Elice, backed by Jagen. She’s beaming, and there’s a subtle smile pulling at the old knight’s expression as well.

“Happy birthday, Marth!” She chirps, and practically dances into the room on light feet. He rises to meet her, she takes his arm and tugs him along as she sweeps around, and they come to a stop both grinning.

“Thank you, Elice. I do believe it is a happy one.” She nods, but then a cloud shadow of severity passes over her face. “There’s still something missing though, that we’ve nearly neglected.” Ah. The cloud breaks in the face of sunbeams, and she’s smiling again. “Come with us, won’t you?”

He looks at her, then to Jagen, both watching him earnestly, and chuckles.

“How can I say no to the both of you?”

“Come then! I’ll lead the way. Oh, but no questions, because the details are confidential.”

She leads him down the hall, through another, and winding through corridors until he’s fairly certain she’s trying to dismantle his sense of direction and location. Just as he’s about to say something, though, she stops and wheels around to face him. “Are you ready?” She asks. He nods, and he’s promptly ushered around a doorway-

“ _Surprise!”_ A chorus of voices sing. A banner reading _Happy Birthday_ falls into view overhead, but then the wind that blew it to where it is blows too hard, a corner comes loose, and Norne jerks out of the way, bumps into Frey who loses balance and knocks into Cain whose legs get tangled-- then the banner falls down over all the others assembled before him.

The party for his 24th birthday begins with an uproar of laughter… and Marth is absolutely laughing along.


End file.
